Thursday, March 23, 2017

Most
of the
years that I spent living at home in Boston bleed together. Did a
certain event
take place in 2010? Or 2012? Or 2013? Was I in a skinny phase brought on by distress or a larger one brought on by the depths of boredom? But inside
that muddled timeline, there are
those moments that stand out. In the spring of 2013, my mother came home
with a
clothing purchase. This in and of itself would not have been worth
noting
normally. At times she feigns ignorance about where my love of fashion
comes from but I've never forgotten. It has always been her, the root
and the source. What
was noteworthy this time was the item purchased.

"Is
that a jumpsuit?" Disgust laced my voice.

She hung it
in a hall closet before turning to me.
"Yes," she replied.

"Are
you actually going to wear it?"

"Of
course. I used to wear them in the 70s."

I didn't
question the latter but I had my doubts about the former. Although my love of
clothes and shopping originates with her, the ways in which we pursue our
conquests diverged long ago. My mother doesn’t try things on in stores.
Instead she brings them home for the necessary testing before returning them
if they aren’t quite right. There was a chance that in a few days the jumpsuit
would return from whence it came. Or, less likely but still possible, that it
would be consumed into the back of the closet, never to be heard from
again.

Sometimes
I
take to a class of clothing immediately. The moment skinny jeans became
The Thing,
I knew that I had to have a pair. With others, it takes time for me to
come
around. For years suits on women made me recoil. The options were
limited. The manners in which I saw them worn were either uninteresting
or
unflattering. Now I cheer for them, the sharp and woolen as well as the
luxe and velvet. I write long posts full of my favorites. I do
celebratory dances in my bedroom when a woman walks the red carpet in
one.

And
yet, I
haven’t bitten the suiting bullet myself. The last suit I bought was a
gray, pinstriped
Michael by Michael Kors number from the old Filene’s Basement that
served me
well during that first blush of post-collegiate life. It was an
interview
workhorse. A well-fitting workhorse, not like the shapeless rectangles
that made me turn my nose up at suits for so long, but a workhorse all
the same. On its last outing, I stood looking out at Boston Harbor from
the
well-appointed waiting room of an upscale insurance company that a
staffing
agency had sent me off to see and considered the possibility of a
suit-wearing life. That was three moves and more than a decade ago.

My
initial
disgust at the jumpsuit’s rise was mostly logistical. I had worn many
impractical clothes in my nearly 30 years but I hadn't had to strip
to use the bathroom since the bodysuits and overalls of my 90s
childhood. And my body had changed
a lot since the age of 10. Puberty had left me busty but still somewhat
slight of hip. Finding a single, pants-dominant piece that would fit
both halves of me seemed impossible.

My mother kept the
jumpsuit and even wore it a few times before I moved across the country
the following spring. With the move, I suddenly had time that was my own and some
disposable income. It was then that I began my quest for a jumpsuit.

Well I didn't know it was a quest when I started but I think that's usually the way of such things.

While
my mother tries on nothing when in a store, I try on everything. It's
not only about fit. It's a form of playing dress up. I don't linger too
long, always take care not to damage the clothing in any way, and,
because I cannot be helped, often leave with something even if that
wasn't my intention. I like to know if I'm being too quick to judge a
new trend, and the only way to do that is to put it on my body. To
slowly turn in front of a mirror and examine it from all angles. To be
able to categorize it as simply not for me, maybe only for me, or
definitely not for anyone.

My time working in apparel
retail only reinforced this habit. At the beginning of each new season,
everyone would have to do a fit session to better acquaint themselves
with the product and provide feedback to corporate. And so while on the
clock I would take all of the major pieces of the new collection into a
fitting room and test them out. Even now that the retail chapter of my
life has ended, I continue to wander into stores for fit sessions. I
live tweet my mall journeys and post pictures, always tilted slightly one way or the other, of suits and skirts and dresses and jeans.

I
spent most of 2014 being "kind of blown away by" or "maybe [sold] on"
the occasional jumpsuit seen on a celebrity at a red carpet event. I was
warming to them outwardly but inwardly I struggled. I rarely took
pictures of myself during jumpsuit try-ons. Something always felt off.
The leg was too wide. It was too tight across the thighs. The crotch did
unpleasant things. The top made my chest look as if it were bound. And
yet I kept trying them on. It only took one pass at an off-the-shoulder
top last summer to know that that trend was not for me. But in 2014 and
early 2015, I couldn't shake myself free of the jumpsuit.

It
took many frustrating months for me to find that first pair of skinny
jeans, but I kept at it because I wanted them. I needed them. And what
did I need nearly a decade later? A jumpsuit. I didn't know why. If I'm
being honest, I rarely do when it comes to clothing with this strong a
draw. There's no logic. Only longing.

Almost
exactly two years ago, I stepped into an H&M fitting room with a
black, white, and gray jumpsuit covered in a big cat print. The color
scheme was all me but on the hanger everything else about it was wrong. I
rarely wear graphic prints. And it was, of course, a jumpsuit. I was
years into my denial about them and happy to stay there. But then I put
it on.